Windows of the Soul
by HappySpoon
Summary: They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. America reflects on this in the mansion. Set after the last scene in Hetaoni and contains spoilers.


Hetaoni story which contains spoilers for the last scene. I do not own Hetalia or Hetaoni.

The English language is riddled with idioms, consisting of both profound wisdom and barely concealed sarcasm. Perhaps that was why the personification of America often associated such phrases with England - a man made of sixty percent sarcasm, thirty percent wisdom and ten percent tea. America often found that such sentiments suited his one-time brother; but none more so than the phrase: the eyes are the windows to the soul.

He remembered the first time he had seen those eyes; they left a deep impression to capture his attention and imagination for the rest of his immortal life. He recalled seeing a flash of vivid green that made the rich prairies of his homeland look dull, infertile and barren in comparison. It was as though every lush forest and grassland in Britain was locked in his emerald gaze for eternity. A forest was a good analogy, for forests can be dark and dangerous; lonely and isolating; beautiful and eternal; vast and cruel. England's soul contained all of these aspects and many more. The man was everything from dark and cool emperor, to loving, doting brother, to lonely and isolated island. America knew it and swore he could see all this and more in the intense gaze of England.

How the mighty have fallen.

Another idiom for the Englishman. It speaks echoes of haunting words from long ago, spoken in haste to cause despair. If only he had known the true meaning of the word despair on that fateful rainy day.

You used to be so big.

He looks even smaller now than when he was crying in the rain in the pit of emotional despair. England is currently perched timidly on the bed in the safe room, staring emotionless into the void of black nothing. Vulnerable and frail. The forest in his eyes has died and decayed. There is nothing. No soul left in those dead eyes. It is as though the monster closed the curtains forever, locked the window and threw away the key. Or perhaps there is simply no soul left to see; any joy, anger and passion lost to the depths of the mansion.

The irony hits America like a tonne of bricks - oh God more idioms to cause despair! The forest was felled to set the sky blue of his own eyes free. After all, England would never have run off if he had been more careful and kept his own glasses close. America had poor vision without his precious Texas. The world became an intimidating blur of confusion, where ghosts, monsters and reality became indistinguishable from one another. Perhaps it was his fate to be near blind in the eternity of the mansion and England took it for him in a vision of self sacrifice. An eye for an eye. Another idiom. Was he not America the self sacrificing hero? Should it not be him that remained visually impaired and afraid. A single tear trickles down America's cheek. A single drop of rain escaping the sky. Alas that rain could not save the forest on this occasion.

He sniffs. Once. But the damage is done and England's head shoots up like a firework, his green eyes seeking the source of the noise but never finding it. Instinctively, the blind man reaches towards America but the man remains out of arms length, standing quietly before his former guardian, his body shaking quietly from suppressed anguish.

"America?" The hesitance in his voice is childish and uncharacteristic. Where is the anger? Where is the fire of a man who once owned a quarter of the world?

Another tear springs unbidden to the American's blue eyes. Suddenly, it is as though the heavens open and with a sob America darts forward and latches on to his former guardian, his arms flinging around him and his head burying in England's bony shoulder. His body shakes as sobs ripple through his entire being. The weeping man tries to ignore the way that England's body flinches at his unexpected touch, the lack of vision causing his gesture to be unanticipated. He does not need another reminder of England's frail condition.

Unable to control himself, the pent up emotions, kept captive in the mansion burst forth with abundance and the superpower cries and weeps and despairs. He cries for himself and the dull but persistent pain that ricochets through him from injuries past. He cries for Italy, the unconscious man lost in the depths of his mind on the other side of the room. He cries for his friends - their hurts, their numerous deaths, their black despair. He cries because he has lost all hope that they will ever leave this mansion alive. But most of all he cries for the window into a soul that he held dear, now lost with that man's vision and hope.

It takes him a while to notice the gentle arms that have snaked around his body, or the slow, methodical strokes of comforting hands on his broad back, or even the soft humming of a lullaby he once knew from long, long ago. Gradually, the comfort starts to seep into his despair and slowly he relaxes. His tears run dry which is more than can be said of England's shoulder; the damp patch of liquid despair on his clothing bearing testament to America's break down. America closes his eyes and holds his former brother protectively as the gentle melody washes over him. The music transports him to a carefree time of smiles and play and love and laughter, far, far away from the never ending pain of the mansion. A melancholy smile graces his cracked, dry lips for a fleeting moment.

The song changes to words, spoken in quiet concern, "America? My dear, dear boy. Be strong! We will get out of here. Things will get better. Chin up dear lad! Show me the stiff upper lip of a hero!"

America drew away from him slowly, putting on a brave face for the man who could not see it. His expression becoming similar to the startlingly blank expression of the other. He knelt in front of England to remain at eye level and moved his hand to rest on top of his so that the other could sense his whereabouts. Silently, he gazed into the blank, green orbs before him and let out a quiet sigh. The windows to the soul remained sacrificed and gone and nothing would change that.

"Thank you, but Iggy, we both know you're the hero here..."


End file.
